Felt old
And shit
And stupid tonight
So thought I’d
Have an omelette
And watch Youtube clips
From when
I was better
Big mood
I’ve scraped together, babe
Expansive
Undefined.
Felt old
And shit
And stupid tonight
So thought I’d
Have an omelette
And watch Youtube clips
From when
I was better
Big mood
I’ve scraped together, babe
Expansive
Undefined.
The light floods in, its coldness a relief from the burning sun outside. The room is sterile but somehow reminds me of rooms in which I’ve sweated in the past – perhaps in dreams.
The inhabitants cannot see me. I am alone, observing but unobserved. It is not as liberating as one might expect.
Outside, I would be just another man. Anonymous on the streets of this foreign town. Here, I am not even that.
I sit, in control of my mind and my thoughts. Oddly tranquil. Somehow soothing. I contemplate many things at my own pace. How many lives lived here, and in what spirit?
There is concrete underfoot. Reassuring.
There is rustling, muttering, coughing. I grow tired.
The coldness is a comfort. But I could happily be colder.
She said
‘There’s beauty in the movement,
Keep your counsel
Don’t subdue it’
I disagreed
And she stepped off
My throat
I rubbed my neck
But managed, just about, to stay afloat.
I didn’t see
The point
In the debate
I laboured, lingered
When I had a thing to say
I knew it was too late.
I said
‘I’ll never lose the violence
In my mind
I’ll never find the silence’
Lay back down
And felt the weight of boot-on-neck
As she smiled sadly,
Told me that
It wouldn’t hurt so badly
If I’d just stay still
But I was never one for staying still.
Treat him like a carthorse
Never give him anything by way of recourse
He’s done, son
He’s got a glitter in his eye
When he remembers how he used to want to try
He used to burn
You will never see him learn
You will only see him sink away
As he deflects
The piercing light of day
Never such a waste of time
Never such a line he belted out
As well as he would belt out mine
I was him then
And I’ll not be him again
It’s never easy
But there used to be so much of me
That big ol’ road is getting shorter.
I dreamed, last night
That we were walking through the forest
As shades of our former selves.
Not at-a-time but all at once, it seemed
From schoolboy humour through to jobs and ‘scenes’
I could not help but cry with increasing intensity
About the younger selves that I begin to miss terribly.
My friends, we happy few, we laughed
Each in-joke crystallising into another’s spark
With intellect and casual stupidity
Our walk ended too rapidly for me.
I miss the pain I used to think I bore
Regret the times I made a poor excuse
I loved you then, and it hurts now, for sure,
To see our shades walking in older men’s shoes.
It’s not so easy being debonair
When everyone is anxious, and our youthful indiscretions
Have ruined our digestions and our hair.
You didn’t know him, then. He had eyes that glimmered but could be as dark as coal if he desired. I was never his equal, not in my eyes, as he wove words and charm and fire and love and hate and all the rest besides. We talked for so many years, and perhaps it was the fire dying in his eyes that made me tire before my time. I didn’t always love him, but the rage and jealousy was always good for me – it improved my art, and I like to think that in reverse I also played my part. His words were so much sweeter when he knew that he was beaten.
You didn’t know him, then. You would never have believed it. He was full of confidence, although, okay, maybe a little bit conceited. My brother, sharing cigarettes in the rain, one after another. We matured together, maybe, growing from one dream to another before we grew apart and got lazy. I remember him, by my side, never quite trusting, but always something to believe in. He made a power play only when I left the gate unbolted, it was okay – if I’d wanted to, it was something that I could have halted.
You didn’t know him, then. He could set fire to stars and make everything seem possible. As we compared scars I’d apologise and he would smile and do likewise, we were always pushing one another, uneasy allies but Dear God, he needed me and he knew I needed him.
You’ll never know him now. Maybe you’ll not know me. We are so different since the fire died, you see. I grow fat and nervous and my eyelids close easily – he has nothing left to say, and pathetically, carefully chooses his clothes to match his own shade of dreary. We speak often, but it’s never more than a salutation, empty words and valediction.
I’ll never get him back, and just as my brother’s gone, I find I also lack much of the energy and drive that I used to see. Kept me alive but no longer than necessary. I guess it’s ‘Goodnight, and thanks for the memories’.
He’s a waste and there’s not much chance left for me. We’ve both decayed and we’re not what we used to be.
I turned up yesterday. Shipped in. They asked me ‘Should you be here?’. I had a hacking cough, or so I’m told. I thought I sounded fine. I’ve been better, I’ve been worse, for sure.
I typed and droned and danced and hurled my body from here to bloody there. A woman called Elaine briefly saved my life when the walls were caving in, and I helped to drag a body from the stairs when it was blocking the handyman’s route in.
If you could have seen the view from the window, it was savage. I looked down into the square where they were burning papers, books, and evidence of everything they’d done.
The shells were very loud, but a boy’s got to earn a living somehow. A little after 3pm the windows shattered and a soldier staggered in and looked me in the eye and moaned ‘it’s over!’ as he sank down by the printer.
He looked young. He had a cut across his face that made him look somehow asymmetrical. I like to think that I’d have died looking better.
This morning, by about eleven, only half a dozen office workers stayed, shredding, loading stuff into a truck to go somewhere with fewer high explosive shells raining down from the fucking sky.
I’m done, son. Put my feet up and have an iced bun, I make sure to take a lunch because I don’t get paid for more than seven hours. Although, to be fair, we might be overrun before five o’clock comes.
The threat of so much promise
Used to keep me honest
Not now though, pilgrim
I look back but now I’m so far from it
I used to have a kind of violent desire
A faith in my cause
An undeniable inner fire
Often misguided
And often derided
But hype with pride
And energy that I could always find
Maybe I need to get it back
But it’s hard to want to want it
When I remember now
How I used to be so single-minded
I’m older now, lazy,
Anxious and blindsided
By the slightest of demands
The future may be in my hands
But my hands are soft, shaky,
Milky-white and only ever reaching
For the wine or extra gravy
I don’t know how to suffer for my art anymore
And though I have a little art
I don’t know what I used to suffer for
The threat of so much promise
It has been demolished
And in its place a dull chest pain
A sleepiness, a foggy brain
Fuck me, I’m done in before I’m even thirty
I’ve got to get some go again
This world didn’t used to deserve me
But now I’m just a layman
With a ‘Hey man’
And a stare
And it’s such an effort
Even imagining going anywhere.
The threat of so much promise
And a need for solace
I’ve been laid up too long
But I don’t know if I’ll be back, son.
I’ll try to keep it honest
I can’t make a promise
But there’s still a vicious ambition
And enough bones to get broken on it
Brenda was smart. She had several piercings in her face, but no-one pierced her heart. We met at a flat in Balsall Heath and talked shit about Weimar German art. She liked James Bond, but I said I couldn’t quite get on with the way he got on, it felt like something was always on-the-verge-of-being-wrong.
Dino had style. He called himself a bastard and he said that he was vile, but I could see a beauty in his soul when he would smile. He would chain blunts, remaining lucid like the blurring of his mind was just a stunt, and people-watching on the balcony with him was always such a lot of fun.
Leah and Jack. It’s hard to talk about their love with enough tact. Always very sensitive and always wary that you’d talk of them behind their backs. Sometimes shy, when she would get excited he would look up to the sky, thank something he believed in for the chance to be here with her and not even have to try. I liked them, I think, but I never really knew them – no heart-to-hearts over the kitchen sink, one blink and they’d be gone at the end of the night, but at the end of the night that sort of thing is alright.
I held it down, imposter in a dressing gown, knocking back scotch with them and critiquing the sounds of the Youtube disco, the beat-up 1970s stereo, the party downstairs that you could hear if you stood to smoke by the window.
I didn’t love them much, and now that all that’s dead I’m sure that I’ll forget them in a rush. I never felt quite comfortable with them, be it drinking on the bus or talking about Jemima’s latest crush. I used to pretend, but functions decreased and now I’m better off just sitting on the sofa, waiting for the end.